


A (little too) Well Respected Man

by Guy_Fleegman



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Sort Of, day in the life, mando just wants his food, restaurant, set before the series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22239856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guy_Fleegman/pseuds/Guy_Fleegman
Summary: Nothing interesting happens on this visit to a bar.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60





	A (little too) Well Respected Man

Maybe it was the helmet, he thought. It turned heads, demanded silence and attention. The sound of his boots was like a rifle being shot into the air.

Assorted species lounged about the place, elbows propping them up as they ordered their sixth drink of the evening. A light tune was on its chorus, the beat swinging back and forth. A few heads bobbed and a few feet bounced. Liquid sloshed over rims as the tender churned out orders, sliding them down the bar to their respective bellies. Heat had built from so many bodies in a place with little air flow. The glasses sweat as did the patrons—those with sweat glands, that was. 

The door opened. Frigid air froze everyone’s movements as well as their conversations. The band took note of the disturbance a few beats later, their tempo off for the first time since getting on stage. All eyes were on the stranger who hadn’t yet crossed the threshold.

Feet scrambled at the ground, kicking up dirt clouds, as two patrons at different tables, took off for the back door. It was the sort of place where everyone knew where the nearest exit was and how thick the walls were in case they needed to make their own exit.

The stranger cocked his head, but did not pursue. He clomped in, armor catching the light. 

It’s got to be the helmet, he thought, pointedly ignoring the many faces tracking his every step. It did its job a little too well. The idea of drawing eyes and a smiling mouth on it passed through his mind.

Occupied seats in his path were empty before he got to them, the air still warm with life. Alright, he thought with a smile, it does have its perks.

After making his way to the bar without firing his gun, patrons’ eyes turned to each other. Who could he be here for, was their collective thought. They looked at the people across from them seriously for the first time. Hands were under tables as people clicked safeties off.

None of them guessed his true reason for being there. They didn’t look at the low prices for food and think he was looking for a cheap meal after a long day. No, they wondered what past crime was catching up with them.

“Your special, please,” he said, fighting his cape away from his bag.

The tender didn’t blink. Mentally, she counted how many chairs could be broken before she had to ask her mother-in-law for financial help.

“I don’t want trouble,” she said, fist balled into her pant leg. If he made a move, she was sure at least ten regulars would have him on the ground in twenty seconds. She considered him. Forty-five seconds then.

His helmet bobbed up and down, and he shrugged. “Me neither."

A pause.

“Your special?” he hazarded.

She nodded, setting about preparing the food. He could tell she was watching him out of her periphery—he didn’t have the energy to care. Around him, conversation picked back up, though most of it consisted of finding out who he was there for.

A few used this opportunity to brag about jobs they’d done that would get a bounty on them. Stolen ships from high-ranking officials, assassinations they couldn’t go into detail about, and other crimes of a similarly vague caliber. He just hoped no one started a fight.

A chalky blue person braved to re-take their seat beside him. Their bare shoulders were hunched in order to avoid brushing elbows with the bounty hunter. With death.

Flames burst upward, blackening the rotating meat that would be the body of his meal. The tender drizzled extra grease over the roast, the shine rolling over the meat and streaming into the basin waiting below.

His stomach twisted in hunger, saliva flooding his mouth. It had been two days since his last meal, and if some bottom-species picked a fight, he’d relieve their body of their head.

It was the strangest feeling. He knew the atmosphere of places changed when he entered and stayed that way for the duration of his visit. But because of that fact, he’d never been in a place unaltered by his mere presence. Which begged the question: how did he know this wasn’t how places always were?

He sighed.

The tender pushed to the balls of her feet, looking at the band over ducked heads. “I’m not paying you to play silence!”

A lute cut through the hushed conversations, and the rest of the instruments joined soon after. They played a song they had played a few minutes before. Nobody noticed.

“You new in town?” She asked. Years of conversation tactics designed to work on any species took hold; he had dubbed the observed talent ‘bar-tender instinct’. He may be able to find anyone, but people like her could drawn anyone into a conversation. 

“Sort of.”

She quirked her head. “You’ve been here before?”

“A few times.”

When she furrowed her brow, he knew he was putting up a fight. His meal sizzled behind her. Brandishing a glowing orange knife, she carved the meat and began assembling the ingredients. From across the bar, she asked, “There a special someone here?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“There a special someone…anywhere?”

“No.”

Bread sandwiched the meat and sauce, all of which was moved into a bag. There was grime caked to the edge of the bag. She dug into it with her nail, attempting to dislodge it on her three-foot journey to the counter.

“I get that.” She sat the bag in front of him. “Never found anyone myself.”

He grabbed it, handing over payment with his other hand. “Thank you.”

A path cleared in front of him. Walls of people on either side guiding him in a non-verbal way to the door. Lounging in public was not an option for him—for his helmet. Get in, get out was the way they wanted it and was the way he told himself he wanted it.

Once he was gone, shoulders slumped. Some were relieved, others were disappointed. Maybe the next Mandalorian to walk in would snatch someone. They just hoped it wasn’t them on his radar.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the story I set out to write exactly, but it's the one I've got. Go ahead and have it, ya Nerf Herders.


End file.
